


Like The Sea Over Sand

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Storms, Survivor Guilt, Travel, Wilderness, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You know who to fall in love with</i><br/><i>(Tall, fair, handsome, with a throne</i><br/><i>For you to share — never anyone</i><br/><i>With the ocean in their blood)"</i> </p>
<p>In the morning when the storm was passed, Tuor came upon an Elf standing beside the walls of Vinyamar; and he was Voronwë, son of Aranwë, of Gondolin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like The Sea Over Sand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> My request:  
> Rating up to = R  
> Requested pairing = Fingon/Maedhros, Celebrimbor/Annatar, Tuor/Voronwë  
> Story elements = Redemption (for at least one character, not necessarily both), a sweet tooth, bling (that is to say, jewellery.) Any story with only one of these elements would be welcomed! :)  
> Do NOT include = Non-con (which I realize could be problem w/ Celebrimbor/Annatar -- I would be willing for you to skirt close to this with this.)
> 
> Well. This is the product of wanting to write new characters, so they may seem a little untried and untested. This also was allowed to ramble for a little bit and 'be it's own thing', so I don't know how well that works. I actually had fun writing these guys, exploring characters I'd never worked with before. Also I wrote half of it at 3am so it probably sounds...strange in places. And there's a distinct lack of sex, which...I can't account for.
> 
> Also I think there's some stuff about this meeting/story that I haven't actually read (I haven't read HoME) so this was inspired purely by the version in the published Silmarillion. Also I know all the Men of Brethil are said to have died in the Fifth Battle; I just assumed there would be some grown teenagers by this point, since it's twenty four years after the fact. 
> 
> Anyway. Happy MSV and Valentine's day! ;)

It was hard, at first, to understand why he was where he was. He knew the _where_ , had known it the instant he limped back to consciousness; the scratch of sand under his cheek, the sharp tang of seasalt in his nose, the icy wash of the waves over his bare feet and calves, the calls of the gulls far overhead. He knew the shore like he knew his own name.

He could safely say he knew the where, or at least enough of it to satisfy him for now. What he was more concerned by was the _why_.

They had been aiming for Valinor. For _home_ , some people still called it. Voronwë wasn’t sure he thought of it as that, not any more. He had agreed to sail because he missed the ocean, nothing more. When their mission seemed doomed to fail like all the others, the captain had made the executive decision to turn around and at least try to make it home, instead of drowning uselessly like everyone else.

_We foundered, out beyond the rocks, in sight of the shore_ , Voronwë thought slowly to himself. _We were going down._

The world had gone black; his last thought had been that this life was over, and soon he would arrive in the unknown world of Mandos’ Halls. He had never been told what to expect there; the prospect was almost frightening.

It seemed, however, that life was not finished with him yet.

A shiver ran through him. He was cold, very cold, and the feeling was strange and unfamiliar. He felt battered; an ache pervaded him that seemed to reach right down into his bones.

The waves were washing higher on his body, and somewhere he dully registered that meant the tide was coming in. He would have to move, before the water reached his head. Thoughts of _why_ would have to wait; for now, he had to move himself out of danger. Even the thought of movement made the ache in his bones flare, but he strengthened his will and made his hand move. He dragged it up the beach, dug into the sand above his head with his fingers, and did the same with his other arm.

Slowly, he dragged himself up the beach. When he had gone as far as he could manage, he tortuously flipped himself over onto his back and stared upward. The sky was a solid, uniform block of grey cloud. He sighed; let his eyes slip closed.

/

When he opened his eyes again the sky was lighter, a stiff wind was coming in off the sea, and he felt slightly less like he was about to fall apart. The all-over ache had faded and been replaced by more specific hurts; his left shoulder twinged when he moved, his right side ached, his right knee throbbed angrily, and it felt like someone had driven a knife through the sole of his left foot. Slowly, he sat up. There was nothing to be done but inspect the damage and try to repair it.

He must, he concluded, have hit rocks or some other obstacle on his way in to shore, from the purpling bruises that adorned his right side from thigh to shoulder. That would account for his knee, too. He had vague memories of gripping a rope with his left hand, and concluded the left shoulder was a pulled muscle. On closer inspection, the throwaway thought about his foot having been stabbed proved almost accurate; there was a long but fairly shallow cut, probably again caused by rocks. All in all, though, it was perhaps not as bad as it could have been. He ripped a strip of cloth from his already tattered clothing and wrapped and tied it around his foot. His shoes would have given more protection, but they must have come off and been lost in the storm, for he could see nothing but natural debris on the beach.

He sat for perhaps two hours, watching the waves and gathering strength, before he hauled himself to his feet. His body protested, but his determination proved the stronger force. He needed to know where he was, now. He needed to find food, water, shelter. What he really needed was to find other beings, whether of the first or secondborn, to help him.

Standing, surveying the landscape, the jolt of familiarity was akin to being struck. He knew this place; he had been here before. He was sure of it.

He began to walk, slowly, along the beach. The stretch of sand was long, turning around an outcrop of cliffs and hiding what lay beyond. He had an idea, though, of what he would find.

It took him around a half hour to reach the place where the cliff bulged outward, and he almost smiled as he made his way around it. The beach stretched out again, a long gentle curve of tan sand mixed with grey shingle, leading to cliffs of dark grey stone which merged into walls and the roofs of houses, all overtopped by three graceful towers. King Turgon’s Hall could be clearly seen, the once clean roof now overgrown with plants. The huge looming mass of Mount Taras reared up behind, overshadowing the scene. It was so familiar Voronwë could have wept for joy.

His heart wished to run, but his body could only walk, so it was more slowly than he would have liked that he made his way to Vinyamar. The stairways that led up into the city through the walls were weathered but still looked usable; he would be able to enter in and shelter there, perhaps even find some game or plants for sustenance. _I might survive this yet_ , he thought to himself.

He paused below the high grey walls and frowned. The mixed sand and shingle beach gave way to rocks that clustered around the bases of the stairways, rocks that would hurt to walk over. He did not fear pain, but he decided to rest for a time anyway. The walk, after all, had been a long one for his abused body. He lowered himself slowly onto a flat rock and stared out to sea.

The view had not changed; it was the same one he had seen from his window every day when they had lived here. The sea, the ever-changing ocean that he had so well loved; that he still loved. The mountains were beautiful, breath-taking, but they had never held the same place in his heart as the waves.

He didn’t count the time he sat, simply staring, before a shout broke into his thoughts. Startled, he turned and looked for the source. It had come from the direction of the city. Were there some who remained, who still lived in these old halls?

A figure was descending one of the stairways, clutching the rock wall for security. Voronwë thought it was man, though from this distance it could easily have been a woman. He waited as they reached the bottom of the stairs and came toward him over the rocks, then levered himself to his feet.

Closer, his earlier suspicion was confirmed. Male, and one of the Secondborn, tall and blond and handsome. He regarded him warily. What was a Man doing here in Vinyamar?

The Man, on the other hand, regarded him with something bordering on wonder. “You came in from the sea,” he said softly, smiling.

Voronwë narrowed his eyes. “How could you know that?”

“He said someone would come. That they would be saved from the sea, and in turn would be able to help me.” The Man cast his eyes over Voronwë. “Though now it looks as if you are the one who could use help, my friend.”

Voronwë had the feeling there was something more to the young Man than met the eye. There was something that gave off the feeling of secrets, and there was a strange, slightly unnatural shimmer to his thick cloak. But he was not one to refuse help freely given, and despite the strangeness there was nothing ill-feeling about this Man. “Help would be appreciated,” he agreed.

The Man held out an arm. “Let me help you over the rocks, then, first. I have a fire and some food up in the city that we can share.”

“Thank you,” Voronwë said simply, accepting the arm around his shoulders. “I am Voronwë; would you gift me your name, stranger?”

“Tuor,” the Man said simply as they started for the stairs.

_Tuor_. The name sparked a sense of memory in Voronwë, but he couldn’t grasp the meaning of it. Like nearly everything about this strange Man, there was something familiar and yet different about the feeling.

The climb up was long and awkward between Voronwë’s foot and Tuor’s hesitance with the thin stairs and the long drop below, but they made it through the wall and into the city, and Tuor led him to the Hall of the King. “Were you aware this Hall once belonged to royalty?” Voronwë asked with a raised brow as they made their way through the building.

“No royalty here now,” Tuor said matter-of-factly. “Here, this room.” He had picked a room closed to the elements, with only one small window that had been almost completely grown over by vines. A small fire was burning in the middle of the floor. “And besides,” he said, sitting down by the fire, “with the city deserted, why shouldn’t I choose the best building? No one else here to contest with.” He eyed Voronwë. “Apart from you, now.”

“I meant no offense,” Voronwë said, sitting down carefully. “I am perfectly content to sleep in the King’s Hall. It isn’t likely that he will return any time soon.”

Tuor grinned. “That’s what I thought.” Then he busied himself with a pot by the fire. “I caught a rabbit early this morning, before the sun rose,” he explained. “I was out looking to see if I could find some herbs for seasoning when I spotted you down on the beach. You’re the first person I’ve seen for months, you know. I’ve been all alone in Nevrast, unless you count the wild beasts and the occasional orc.”

“Really?” Voronwë asked, slightly shocked. “What happened to your family? To your people?”

“Well, after my father died in the Nírnaeth, my mother left me to be fostered by elves before leaving herself,” Tuor said, completely matter-of-fact. “They say she went to the Haudh-en-Ndengin and laid herself down to die.”

Voronwë blinked. “Forgive me, I should not have asked-”

Tuor interrupted him with a quick shake of his head. “It’s fine. I never knew them enough to weep too much for their deaths. I was fostered with the Grey-elves until I was sixteen, until they tried to escape and were captured by the enemy.” He paused and looked down, the expression on his face dark. “It was their deaths I truly mourned. It was for them I became an outlaw.”

There was a long silence before Voronwë prompted, “And you have ended up here in Vinyamar because…?”

“I was called here,” Tuor said. “And what of you, Master Voronwë?” he continued before Voronwë could ask him to expand upon his earlier statement. “From where have you come, and what brought you hence?”

“From here in Vinyamar, originally,” Voronwë said, deciding to let his strangeness pass once again. “I was born here. I lived here for maybe ninety years before-”

“Before you moved to _Gondolin_ ,” Tuor interrupted, awe suddenly filling his expression. “Of _course_ , you are from Gondolin, that explains it!”

“That explains what?” Voronwë asked, confused.

“Why you were sent, why you were saved!” Tuor grinned. “ _You_ are how I get there.”

Voronwë frowned, immediately wary. “Why would _you_ want to go to Gondolin?” he asked suspiciously.

Tuor waved a hand. “That’s not important now. Tell me, how did you end up here? I have heard that no one may leave the Hidden City.”

“And no one may enter, either, I hope you heard also,” Voronwë said pointedly. When Tuor didn’t respond, he continued slowly, “King Turgon sent ships to sail into the West, hoping to find the way back to Aman. We hoped to sail to the Blessed Land and beg clemency from the Powers, that we might be saved from the Great Enemy.” Voronwë sighed. “But the Doom lies heavy upon us, and the Valar have closed their hearts. No ship made it beyond the barrier of shadows, and our own ship returning to these shores was struck down and pulled under, with I the only survivor, it appears.”

Tuor nodded slowly, frowning. “And now you will go back to Gondolin.”

“Yes. And I will not take you with me, since I sense that is what you want.”

Tuor smiled lightly. “We won’t argue about that now. The stew is done. Come and eat.” He turned back to the pot and ladled the food into bowls. “Lucky for you I have two just in case,” he murmured.

Voronwë eyed him for a few seconds before deciding to let the matter drop. He might as well accept some food and get some rest before having to possibly alienate the Man – more of a boy, actually, now Voronwë thought about it – by refusing to take him to the Hidden City. He accepted the bowl and ate. It wasn’t half bad, considering the circumstances.

After he had eaten he felt full and sleepy, so Tuor told him to rest while he took care of the watch. Even Voronwë’s usually impeccable sense of self-preservation couldn’t prevent him from immediately taking the opportunity to slip into reverie and rest, even if it meant trusting a man he’d only just met to watch out for possible danger.

/

When he came back to full consciousness it was dark outside. The fire was blazing merrily, and Tuor was sitting next to it, cross-legged. Even with his face in shadow, Voronwë could tell from his expression that he was thinking dark thoughts. He watched him for a while rather than overtly revealing that he was awake. Tuor stared into the flames, a dark frown on his face and a haunted look in his eyes, for many minutes before he seemed to feel Voronwë’s eyes on him and met his gaze. The corners of his lips twitched. “How long have you been staring at me?” he asked mildly.

“Long enough to know your thoughts trouble you.”

Tuor gave a sharp shrug of his shoulders. “Everyone has troubling thoughts.”

“Not everyone is an orphaned outlaw living in a ruin.”

“I have my purpose,” Tuor said, looking away. “That is all I need.”

“Your purpose?” Voronwë asked.

Tuor stared into the fire and said nothing, so Voronwë surmised it was not something he wanted to talk about. He had met many others unwilling to talk about many subjects, so he cast around for another subject. In the end Tuor saved him by asking, “If you are a mariner, what do you in Gondolin?”

“How do you know Gondolin is not by the sea?” Voronwë asked.

“My father knew where Gondolin was,” Tuor said, as if that should have been obvious.

“Your father _knew_?” Voronwë asked, shocked.

Tuor just nodded, and then casually, as if he had not just revealed such stunning information, asked, “Do you belong to the House of the King?”

Caught slightly off guard by the changing course of the conversation, Voronwë faltered a little. “What? I- no, no I don’t. I am from one of the smaller branches of another great House of the city.”

“So you are one of the Noldor, then.” Voronwë nodded. “Should have known,” Tuor said, leaning back and surveying him in an almost haughty manner. “You’ve the look of our glorious overlords.”

“I – what?” Voronwë spluttered, confused.

Tuor’s face split into a grin, and Voronwë realized he had been joking. “One of my friends used to talk like that,” he said by way of explanation. “He hated the Noldor. Tried to explain it all to me once, but at twelve I wasn’t very interested in politics.”

“Yes, well,” Voronwë sniffed, absently fingering a lock of his dark hair. Joke it may have been, but the comment had still rather unsettled him. “Such divisions may be rampant in the outside world, but in Gondolin society is more in harmony.”

“Because the class boundaries are so rigidly defined?” Tuor asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Voronwë frowned at him. “Yes, class boundaries are fairly rigid, for good or ill as that may be. But how would you know that?”

“My father visited Gondolin, obviously.”

Voronwë shook his head. “Only two of the Secondborn have ever visited the Hidden City, and they are both dead.”

“Yes, in the Nírnaeth. That was the summer before my birth. My father wanted to-” Then Tuor paused, looking at Voronwë with an incredulous expression on his face. “Wait. You have no idea who my father was, do you?”

“Well, how should I know who your father was?” Voronwë asked indignantly.

“Voronwë, my name is _Tuor_. What were the names of the two Secondborn who visited Gondolin?”

“Húrin and-” It hit him like a hammer blow. “Tuor. _Tuor_.” He put his head in his hands. “For the love of Varda! I _knew_ there was a reason I recognised that name.” Seeing the beginnings of a teasing smile on Tuor’s face, he levered himself to his feet. “I need some air. I am going outside.” Seeing Tuor begin to rise, he snapped, “ _Don’t_ follow me.”

A flash of hurt crossed Tuor’s face, but he obediently remained in place.

Outside, the wind was cold. Voronwë didn’t venture out into the streets, just stood in the huge portico of the Hall and looked out at the silent, dead city. His embarrassment faded quickly, and he found himself contemplating the fate of his old home. What had happened here in the years since they had left? Had others like Tuor sought shelter here? Had any but the plants and animals been witness to its long, slow slide into decay and ruin?

The thought crossed his mind to find his old house, but he pushed it aside. It would be a ruin now. Nothing like what it had been. Better to leave the memories of the airy rooms, whitewashed walls and pretty courtyard where they rested, forever bright and beautiful in his memory.

His thoughts turned back to his company. Tuor, the son of Huor. Twice an orphan, it seemed, and with no one in the world but himself. Why would he seek Gondolin? To find comfort and shelter in the place his father had once been welcomed? Voronwë sighed. He did not want to crush the boy’s hope, but there would be no solace for him in finding Gondolin. No one from outside was allowed in. In the most fearful part of his heart, Voronwë secretly wondered if they would even believe he himself was who he claimed and let him return.

He could not leave the boy waiting forever. He should tell him there would be no use in his going to Gondolin, so he might save him the pain and effort of the wasted journey.

When he stepped back into the Hall, a voice called his name from the shadows. He jumped, turning all about, but couldn’t see the voice’s owner. “Over here, Voronwë.” A figure stepped out into the moonlight; it was only Tuor. “I wanted to show you something.”

“Spying on me, are you?” Voronwë said, perhaps a little too sharply; the rush of fear he’d felt at being surprised by an unknown voice had not entirely faded.

Tuor did not seem to take offense. “Waiting for you,” he said mildly, then indicated the way to the throne room with one arm.

Voronwë followed him through the main corridor into the large central hall, lit by bars of moonlight falling through the tall narrow windows. The cool white marble and beautiful statues were unchanged as if time had not touched them; and there at the end of the hall sat the King’s seat, as resplendent in the silver light as it had been on the day they left.

But something had changed. It became apparent the more Voronwë looked. Something was missing.

“The arms and armour King Turgon left are gone,” Voronwë said quietly. “The messenger from Ulmo…” In the corner of his vision he caught movement, and turned to see Tuor unfastening his cloak. He let the garment fall away, and it seemed that a veil had been lifted from Voronwë’s eyes, and he suddenly saw what he had subconsciously known had been hidden. Tuor stared at Voronwë, and Voronwë stared at his armour, and the shield with the white wing. After a long time he said, “Lord Ulmo chose you as his messenger.”

“That is why I must go to Gondolin,” Tuor said. “That is why he saved you alone of the mariners, that you might lead me there.”

Voronwë was quiet for a long time before he murmured, “I do not understand.” He looked down at his hands; they looked pale as bone in the moonlight. “Why me? There were many aboard who were of Gondolin, who knew the way back.” A wave of sorrow, previously dulled by circumstance and exhaustion, flooded to the forefront of his mind, and he felt it choke in his throat. “Why did they deserve to die, and not I?”

Tuor came forward and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I do not know,” he whispered. “Only the Lord of Waters knows why he chose you. What matters is that you have been chosen.”

“No.” Voronwë turned away. “It does matter. It matters to me. Why could he have not saved us all, if he saved me?”

“Is it our place to question him?” Tuor asked quietly.

“Yes!” Voronwë spat, suddenly angry. “Why should we not question? Why did my companions deserve to die, because we dared to try and beg forgiveness?”

“I don’t know,” Tuor said, wary and uncertain, and Voronwë thought then that he looked very young.

“’Remember that the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West and cometh from the Sea’,” Voronwë quoted, suddenly feeling very tired. “That was what he told us. We were only trying to follow his guidance.”

“Voronwë, I…” Tuor faltered, and Voronwë looked up at him. He was so unsure, so uncertain, and so painfully young, the full glow of the moon’s light throwing his face into a study of sharp contrasts. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “All I know for certain is that I must follow his call. It is very important that I deliver my message to the King.”

Voronwë sighed. “Just tell me one thing, Tuor, son of Huor. Do you think that Lord Ulmo would have saved me, humble Voronwë, a mariner of little importance, if you had not needed guidance to the Hidden City? Had you been able to get there yourself, do you think he would have saved any one of us?”

Tuor was silent for a long while. “I don’t know,” he murmured eventually.

“You must have an opinion. Some idea.”

“Fine, then. No. No, going by the evidence, I don’t think he would have.” He let the statement hang for a moment before he added, “I don’t see why it matters, anyway.”

Voronwë heaved a long sigh. “You are not much of a philosopher, Tuor.”

“In my life there has been little time for such things. What has mattered is _what_ I had to do, not the why.”

“So you give no thought to morality.”

“I didn’t say that.” Tuor frowned. “What I mean is, I have to know what’s right and do it, quickly. There isn’t time for standing around debating.”

“Ah, time,” Voronwë said. “Perhaps that is the tragedy of Men. They die too soon to truly know what is meant by anything, for they have no time to think about it.”

“And perhaps it is the tragedy of elves that they spend too long thinking about everything to get anything done,” Tuor said, scowling.

“You will truly make a poor philosopher, Tuor.”

“And you are truly a pretentious arse,” Tuor grumbled, glaring at him.

For some reason, that made Voronwë laugh. He supposed it was just the look on Tuor’s face. The startled expression the laugh garnered only prolonged his amusement. “Men are strange creatures,” Voronwë concluded when he had his breath back.

“Look who’s talking,” Tuor muttered.

Voronwë chuckled. There was silence after the sound faded, and it hung until Voronwë sighed and said, “Very well, son of Huor, messenger of Ulmo. I will take you to the Hidden City. But do not expect a warm welcome.”

Tuor smiled. “I am the messenger of Ulmo, Voronwë. They will love me.”

Voronwë snorted. “Perhaps.”

/

They set out the next morning. They had little to carry; Voronwë had washed up on shore with nothing but his clothes, and Tuor had little more. They looked through a few buildings and found little but plants and mice. Tuor gave Voronwë the sword he had used until he was gifted with the one found in Vinyamar, and a few pieces of his old armour that fit. “I just wish they had thought to leave a pair of boots with all the armour,” Tuor said as they were walking out of the eastern gate.

“Elves oft go without shoes. I will be fine.”

“Your foot is injured. I wish-”

“No. I am not taking your boots, Tuor, and that is the end of the debate.”

Tuor fell silent, but Voronwë could sense he was still unhappy. He wasn’t nearly as nervous about going without shoes as his companion was about him being unshod, which amused him in an odd sort of way. Tuor, he surmised, was a caring person by nature. It warmed Voronwë that his hard existence hadn’t worn away that quality of his.  

He sighed and turned to look back at the city which slowly dwindled behind them. He had loved Vinyamar with all his heart. To leave it first had been painful; to leave it again was easier, now it was cold and dilapidated and fallen from former glory, but those factors in turn contributed to the heartache of beauty lost and forgotten. He would be both glad and saddened to put it behind him.

In the end, though, he had to keep walking.

/

A week out of Vinyamar, Voronwë thought they were making good time. This part of the journey was easiest to navigate; they simply needed to follow the mountains in a straight line east. It was after they passed the Pools of Ivrin that the journey would become harder. He wasn’t sure now which lands were truly safe – if any – but he had decided it would make sense to go south to the Crossings of Teiglin and take the old road up toward Tol Sirion. The tower on the island he knew had been taken by Morgoth’s lieutenant, but he thought if they went to Teiglin they would be far enough away to escape his notice. A road branched eastward up to the crossing of Sirion by the north eastern corner of the Forest of Brethil, and if they could make it over that they would be within safe enough distance of Gondolin’s entrance, he thought. He just hoped that the Crossings of Teiglin were still held by the Men of Brethil, and not watched by enemy eyes.

As they sat opposite each other over the small campfire, Voronwë wondered if he should consult Tuor about this plan. Was the Man expecting him to, or did he expect to blindly follow his elven guide for the whole journey? Would he have some knowledge that would influence Voronwë’s decision?

_Or does he fully place his faith in Ulmo’s guidance?_

He tried to shake the thought away. Speculation about the Vala’s role as his saviour still troubled his conscience. He couldn’t shake the thought that he was disloyal, and tainted somehow, by remaining alive while all his crewmates had died for the perceived sin that he too had committed.

“You look like you are thinking deep, dark thoughts once again,” Tuor said, amused.

“Surely you know that is one of my habits, by now.” Voronwë felt the hint of a smile flit over his face. “How did you know, anyway?”

“You’re getting easier to read.” Tuor smiled, though it had a slightly sorrowful edge. “And I can also tell that you don’t want to talk about it. So, instead, tell me; did you ever meet my father?”

Voronwë blinked. But of course, he should have known this would come up in conversation eventually. “Just once.”

Tuor grinned. “Well, what was he like?”

Voronwë considered. “Tall. Blond. He looked like you, quite a lot, actually. He was loud, laughed a lot, but he was respectful. He…struck you as a happy man.” _In that respect, he was like you sometimes are_ , Voronwë thought, but he didn’t give voice to it.

“Hmm.” Tuor looked down. “I wish I had known him.”

“I wish you had known him, and your mother too. It is a wrongness in the world when a child cannot know their parents.”

Tuor nodded silently. “If only we lived in happier times. That was what my father sacrificed his life trying to achieve.”

“A noble aim, though it failed.”

They were silent for a long time before Voronwë asked a question that had long been on his mind, but strangely never voiced. “How old are you, Tuor?”

Tuor blinked, looking surprised. “Four and twenty. Why?”

Voronwë shrugged. “Curiosity.”

A mischievous glint filled Tuor’s eye. “And how old are you, master Voronwë? Older than the trees and the stars?”

“Old enough,” Voronwë said with a raised brow. “Now, bank the fire. Let’s get some sleep.”

/

The cold came down suddenly, wrapping them in icy blasts and blankets of snow. Hunting was harder, and Voronwë became used to constant hunger gnawing his belly as they trudged for hours on end.

After what seemed like years battling through the snow, they came upon a sight that Voronwë would not forget. The Pools as he remembered them were bright, sparkling, full of energy and life. He did not expect them to look the same, it being winter; but he did not expect them to look like _this_.

Decay and death and the scent of burning hung over the marshy swamp that had once been the Pools. A sense of foulness pervaded the very air. The cold was bone deep and bitter. The water, once so clear, was patchy, frozen, and murky. The trees were dead, rotten or blackened by fire. It was like the scene of a gruesome battle, but the casualties were not lives but the purity of this natural space.

“It has been destroyed,” Tuor said sorrowfully, kneeling to touch the muddy snow.

“Not destroyed,” Voronwë said tightly. “Defiled. This is dragon’s work.”

Tuor straightened instantly, alert and on edge. “A dragon?”

“Trust me, we would know if it were nearby. Those beasts smell like death itself. No, the dragon is long gone, but its taint remains.” Voronwë sighed. “The power of Ulmo has been broken here. The enemy may yet be even stronger than we have perceived.”

Tuor nodded; then, in glancing around, tensed. “A dragon may not be here, but someone else is,” he whispered urgently. “Get down.”

Voronwë dropped, and they melted back into the burnt trees.

The figure Tuor had spotted appeared only a few moments later; a tall man in a black cloak, his hair long and ragged, his stride purposeful. His face was hidden in the hood of his cloak, and on his hip was belted a curious black sword. He stood for a few minutes at the edge of the pools, and they were unable to gauge his reaction with his face covered. After that he passed on, moving quickly, and did not appear to have noticed them. He disappeared northward, and after a pause, they both slowly stood from the undergrowth.

“How strange,” Tuor said quietly. “He felt almost…familiar. And dangerous.” Tuor looked at him. “Who was that?”

Voronwë couldn’t decide if it was fear he saw in his eyes. “Death. Destruction. He was cursed,” he said, not knowing where the words came from but knowing they were true. “Be glad he did not see us.” He looked up at the sky. “Come. There is nothing here. We should move on.”

/

Teiglin, they found, was still held by the Men of Brethil, who welcomed them warily. “Travellers are seldom seen these days,” the leader of the band that found them said, eyeing them.

“I can imagine,” Voronwë said. “The land is not exactly hospitable.”

The leader grunted. “Still, you don’t seem like demons. It is our custom to welcome travellers for one night.”

They spent one night in the woodsmen’s stockade, blessedly warm and protected from the world outside. When asked where they were headed, Tuor simply said, “To find my kin.” The men snorted and informed them that everyone who had lived in the north was dead, but they were welcome to keep going. They ate a hot stew and tough bread, and Voronwë retired to the corner they’d been allocated early. He could sense these people felt uncomfortable and suspicious in the company of an elf; maybe they would reveal something to Tuor that they wouldn’t have said in his presence.

After perhaps an hour Tuor returned, carrying something with him. It was some kind of food, and Tuor offered him a piece when he sat down. “What is it?” Voronwë asked, turning it over in his hand. It was a light yellow-white in colour, and flexible but firm.

“Dried apple,” Tuor said, popping another piece into his mouth. “Very nice, very sweet. They make it a lot here, apparently. Something to do with bread ovens and trays and taking out the water, I didn’t quite understand the explanation. But it’s very nice.”

Voronwë took a bite, and found he agreed. “Sweeter than normal apple,” he commented, accepting another piece.

“It’s some of the last they have, so savour it,” Tuor said with a cheeky wink.

“I will let you eat most of it, since you seem so enamoured with it,” Voronwë said with a smile.

“I can’t take all of it,” Tuor grinned, waving another piece in front of his nose.

Voronwë took it, if only because Tuor would continue to badger him until he did. “Did you find out anything useful, then?” he asked as he nibbled it.

“They’re very pessimistic, for one thing,” Tuor said, taking a much larger bite of his apple. “‘Everyone in the north is dead’ was their theme throughout our conversation.”

“But what about the road?”

Tuor frowned. “They said it depends. Sometimes there are orcs, sometimes there aren’t. I got the impression they don’t leave the ford much to check. Still,” he shrugged and started another piece of apple, “they said we should try it. And I still think it’s the best way. And the quickest.”

“Hopefully we’ll be quick enough to avoid notice,” Voronwë muttered.

Tuor smiled at him. “We’ll be fine. You should know I have complete faith in you.”

“Right,” Voronwë gave him a look. Tuor just laughed.

/

They saw orcs, but never enough to truly threaten them. Everything seemed rendered immobile by the vicious cold; game was near non-existent, no birds sung, barely a leaf moved or twig snapped. There were many days when Voronwë was surprised he had even woken at all, and had not yet surrendered to all-encompassing chill.

But now they had made it across Sirion, and drew close to the hidden entrance to Gondolin.

“It is only a little farther now,” Voronwë assured Tuor one night, when they sat alone wrapped in their cloaks, staring up at the stars.

“Just think of the warm fires and soft beds we shall have when we arrive,” Tuor said, shivering.

“That’s the spirit,” Voronwë smiled, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

They were mere days away from where Voronwë was sure the entrance to Gondolin was hidden, when Tuor revealed the truth of what Voronwë had been had suspected all along.

“I know what you have guessed,” he said one night. No wood would take a flame to make a fire, but by now they had become so used to the cold it seemed only a passing trouble. They had found a log upon which to sit and collapsed there, grateful for the protection of a few stunted trees.

“And what is that?” Voronwë asked, staring up at the stars. They twinkled above him, a carpet of brilliance spread out to calm his tired mind.

“I have been with you long enough to know when you are avoiding an issue,” Tuor said quietly. “And I know you know.”

Voronwë sighed. “I have come to know you well also, son of Huor. Often close companionship breeds such a relationship, but-”

“You think I am being too hasty, as ever,” Tuor interrupted.

“Changeable as quicksilver,” Voronwë murmured. “Wasn’t that what I said, once?”

Tuor nodded. “You have accused me of being as unpredictable and capricious as a tempest, but know this; only slowly does my heart know what it wants. I cannot say it wants you yet, but one day, it might.”

Voronwë was silent for a long time, digesting this. “Wait to see what Gondolin brings,” he said darkly, foreboding suddenly heavy in his heart. “Everything will be changed in the Hidden City. And besides that,” Voronwë sighed, “Love held between firstborn and second has forever been fated to a bitter end.” Tuor still looked so young to him; from a world that moved so fast, he was as volatile and lightning fast as a hurricane. Voronwë suddenly could not imagine him contained behind Gondolin’s perfect white walls.

Now his eyes glowed with determination, and Voronwë could see that he did not truly understand. “Then at least kiss me once, oh Voronwë of the Eldar, son of stars,” he said, his voice quiet like a whisper of wind. “Then I will have, if only but once, tasted your eternity.”

_There is nothing to eternity but sorrow_ , Voronwë could have said, but Tuor was no philosopher. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “Then kiss me,” he whispered, “but do not blame me for what comes of it.”

Tuor leaned toward him, his hair falling forward like a curtain, slightly ice-crusted and glowing in the moonlight. He traced the tip of one slightly shivering finger along the curve of Voronwë’s cheekbone. He was so close Voronwë could feel his breath as well as see it, the mist hanging a long time in the frigid air.

Tuor stopped stalling then and did kiss him; just the once, but deeply and fervently, as if he believed he had but one chance to do so. It lasted an age and yet was over in a second, and the feelings it evoked in Voronwë were as tumultuous as the storm that had brought them together.

Voronwë kept his eyes closed when Tuor pulled away, though whether to shield himself from the Man’s expression or to hide a part of himself from his gaze, he did not know.

/

After they had found the Hidden Gate and everything had transpired, they found each other once more in a garden. The royal servants had dressed Tuor like a king, but he seemed nervous and uncomfortable in such finery. Voronwë had returned to a suitable, if not extravagant state of dress, and the ostentatiousness of Tuor’s clothing amused him. “You were right,” he said with a welcoming smile. “They do love you, messenger of Ulmo.”

Tuor ran his eyes over him, and for once his expression was hard to read. “I would prefer your choice in clothing,” he said at length.

“They will allow you to choose your own clothes, you know. They can’t force you to wear what’s uncomfortable.”

“Hmm.” Tuor fidgeted slightly on his feet, and Voronwë mourned that their easy companionship from the road faltered here in this wildly different setting.

Tuor dipped his hand into his pocket and drew something out, then held out his hand. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “They keep plying me with gifts, but I thought this would look better on you. You deserve something more than thanks, I think, for keeping me alive for so long.”

“Your thanks are more than enough,” Voronwë said, but he reached out and took the proffered gift anyway. It was a thin silver bangle, engraved with runes on the inside and a pattern of vines on the outside. “This is beautiful,” he murmured. “Tuor, I-”

“I know some things have not come to pass between us,” Tuor interrupted. “Some things you may have wished did. I do not know if they will, here. But I know-” He faltered for a moment, then pressed on, “I know you have felt…haunted, perhaps is the word, by your salvation from the storm.” Voronwë stiffened; Tuor had not often brought this up after that first time, and Voronwë had always subsequently shut him down when he tried. He didn’t, though, this time. “As you say, I am often perhaps too quick to judge and do not take long enough in thinking about things,” Tuor said, “But I do know this. Whatever the right or wrong of your being saved, there is no way I could think you underserving of it, or tainted by it, as I know you sometimes have. You saved me, plain and simple. You saved me and have become my closest and treasured friend. If that is not worthy of saving, I do not know what is.”

Voronwë opened his mouth to speak, but could not think of what to say. Was this an absolution, perhaps? Was guiding Tuor here enough to wash him clean of guilt?

He slowly slipped the bangle onto his wrist, then reached and gripped Tuor’s elbows, drawing him forward until he could rest their foreheads together. “I do not know that the Noldor can ever earn back innocence and purity, Tuor, son of the Secondborn,” he whispered. “But perhaps your absolution can make me almost good enough.”

Tuor didn’t say anything else, but he mirrored Voronwë’s grip on his elbows and squeezed tight.

A flash of foresight struck Voronwë as they stood there, and he knew with certainty that the potential between them was gone, somehow; had been gone since they stepped through the gates into the city. The thought saddened him, but he knew better than to fight with destiny, having previously been its pawn. If friendship was all he would have of Tuor, he would take it, and gladly.

He had had enough of destiny to last even as long as the lifetime of an elf.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Florence + the Machine song 'Heartlines'; the quote in the summary is from the poem 'The Princess Who Fell In Love With A Pirate' by tumblr user lydiamaartin. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :D


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